The remains of our luncheon lay in a basket under 128 our seat—plenty of bread and beef, and nearly a quart of red wine.
“Call the escort—they are starving,” I said to Buckhurst.
“I think not,” he said, coolly. “I may eat again.”
“Call the escort!” I repeated, sharply.
Buckhurst looked up at me in silence, then glanced warily at the Countess.
A few moments later the gaunt dragoons were munching dry bread as they rode, passing the bottle from saddle to saddle.
We were ascending another hill; the Countess, anxious to stretch her limbs, had descended to the road, and now walked ahead, one hand holding her hat, which the ever-freshening wind threatened.
Buckhurst bent towards me and said: “My friend, your suggestion that we deprive ourselves to feed those cavalrymen was a trifle peremptory in tone. I am wondering how much your tone will change when we reach Paris.”
“You will see,” said I.
“Oh, of course I’ll see,” he said,... “and so will you.”